Until the reader is able and willing to appreciate the innumerable beauties of the Canterbury Tales, it is not to be expected that he can make acquaintance with the graceful though somewhat pedantic “Court of Love,” an allegorical poem, bearing the strongest marks of its Provençal origin; or with the exquisite delicacy and pure chivalry of the “Flower and the Leaf,” of which latter poem Campbell speaks as follows, enthusiastically but justly:
“The Flower and the Leaf is an exquisite piece of fairy fancy. With a moral that is just sufficient to apologise for a dream, and yet which sits so lightly on the story as not to abridge its most visionary parts, there is, in the whole scenery and objects of the poem, an air of wonder and sweetness, an easy and surprising transition, that is truly magical.”
We cannot conclude this brief and imperfect notice of this great poet without strongly recommending all those who desire to know something of the true character of English literature to lose no time in making acquaintance with the admirable productions of “our Father Chaucer,” as Gascoigne affectionately calls him; the difficulties of his style have been unreasonably exaggerated, and the labor which surmounts them will be abundantly repaid, “it will conduct you,” to use the beautiful words of Milton, “to a hill-side; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming.”
“Gabrielle, you should not stay out so late alone.”
“It isn’t late, sister dear, for a summer’s evening. The church clock struck eight just as I turned into the little path across the field.”
The first speaker, who was the eldest, raised her head from her work, and, looking at Gabrielle, said:
“For you it is too late. You are not well, Gabrielle. You are quite flushed and tired. Where have you been?”
“Nowhere but in the village,” Gabrielle said.
She paused a moment, then added, rather hurriedly:
“I was detained by a poor sick woman I went to see. You don’t know her, Joanna, she has just come here.”
“She is a widow woman, not young, and very poor. She spoke to me in the road the other day, and I have seen her once or twice since. She had heard our name in the village, and to-night I promised her that you or Bertha would go and call on her. She has been very unhappy, poor thing. You will go, sister?”